THE NIGHT THE DESERT REMEMBERED

The first man through the doorway struck the metal frame with his shoulder.

Frank moved aside, caught the man's arm, and redirected his momentum into the wall. The attacker stumbled, swore, and dropped to one knee.

Frank did not pursue him.

He stepped backward, putting the narrow corridor between himself and the remaining men.

"Emily!" he shouted. "Get to the back!"

She ran toward the opposite side of the room.

Cole's men crowded the entrance.

One carried a metal flashlight. Another held a length of pipe. The third was younger, barely twenty-five, with nervous eyes and a hand that kept moving toward his belt.

Frank recognized the look.

The young man was frightened.

That made him dangerous.

"Stay back," Frank warned.

The man with the pipe laughed.

"You're one old bastard."

He swung.

Frank ducked, stepped inside the arc, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest. The pipe struck the wall, sending dust into the air.

The attacker staggered.

Frank struck him once in the ribs and pushed him away.

He did not move like a young man.

His knees were stiff, and the old injuries in his left shoulder protested every time he raised his arm.

But he had spent decades learning how to conserve movement.

He did not waste energy on anger.

He did not chase anyone who could be allowed to stumble into his own mistakes.

Cole watched from the doorway.

His expression had changed.

He had expected a helpless old man.

Instead, he was watching someone who understood violence too well to enjoy it.

"Enough!" Cole shouted.

The men hesitated.

Frank backed toward Emily.

She stood near the rear wall, clutching the case.

A narrow service passage led outside, partially blocked by a fallen beam.

Frank looked at it.

Then at Cole.

"Let her go."

Cole laughed.

"She's carrying my property."

"It's evidence."

"It's mine."

"No."

Frank's voice became harder.

"It never belonged to you."

Cole's face twisted.

He stepped into the corridor.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know your father was a thief."

Cole lunged.

Frank barely had time to react.

The younger man drove him against the wall, striking his shoulder and knocking the flashlight from his hand. Pain flashed through Frank's arm.

He gritted his teeth.

Cole grabbed his jacket.

"You don't get to talk about my father!"

Frank looked at him.

"Then stop acting like him."

Cole struck him across the face.

Frank fell against the shelves.

The room shook as a stack of old boxes collapsed.

Emily screamed.

Cole turned toward her.

"Give me the case!"

She backed away.

"No!"

He started toward her.

Frank caught his arm.

Cole spun and struck him again.

Frank dropped to one knee.

For an instant, the years seemed to disappear.

The concrete room became the old garage.

The smell of dust became smoke.

Cole's shouting became Victor Shaw's voice.

And Frank was young again, standing beside Daniel as flames climbed the walls.

He remembered Daniel reaching for him.

He remembered the blood on his friend's shirt.

He remembered making a promise.

I won't leave you.

And then he remembered breaking it.

"Frank!"

Emily's voice cut through the memory.

He looked up.

Cole stood over him, breathing heavily.

"Stay down."

Frank placed one hand on the floor and pushed himself upright.

"No."

Cole stared at him.

Frank wiped blood from his mouth.

"You don't understand," he said quietly. "I've spent thirty years wishing I could change one night."

He looked at the cassette in Emily's hand.

"I'm not wasting another one."

Cole charged.

Frank stepped aside, caught his jacket, and used the younger man's momentum to send him crashing into the shelves.

Metal rattled.

Boxes spilled across the floor.

Cole stumbled but stayed upright.

Frank was already moving toward Emily.

"Go!"

She ran through the service passage.

Frank followed.

Behind them, Cole shouted orders.

The passage opened onto the rear slope of the mine. Loose stones rolled beneath their boots, and the afternoon sun blinded them as they emerged.

Emily hurried toward the vehicles.

Frank struggled to keep pace.

His shoulder burned.

His breath came in short bursts.

He was sixty-eight years old, and his body had begun reminding him of every year.

They reached the mesquite trees.

Emily opened the truck door.

Frank stopped her.

"Wait."

"What?"

He listened.

Engines.

Several of them.

Cole's men were moving around the other side of the mine, trying to reach the road.

Frank looked toward the motorcycle.

He could reach it in seconds.

But Emily's truck was parked farther down the slope, and the road ahead was narrow.

"Take the truck," he said. "Drive south until you reach the highway. Don't stop for anyone."

"What about you?"

"I'll follow."

"No."

"Emily—"

"I'm not leaving you here!"

Frank gripped her shoulders.

"Listen to me. That cassette is the only evidence we have that could expose these people. If they take it, everything your father died for disappears."

Emily's eyes filled with tears.

"I can't lose another person because of this."

Frank's expression softened.

"You haven't lost me."

He looked toward the approaching engines.

"Not yet."

He stepped away.

"Go."

Emily climbed into the truck.

She hesitated, then started the engine.

Frank waited until she reached the road before running toward the Harley.

His shoulder screamed when he lifted himself onto the seat.

He ignored it.

The engine started on the second attempt.

Frank accelerated down the dirt track just as Cole's men emerged from behind the mine.

A shout followed him.

Then the sound of another motorcycle starting.

Cole was coming after him.

Frank leaned into the first turn.

The Road King bounced across the uneven ground, its suspension groaning. Dust rose behind the rear tire.

He reached the main road and turned south.

A black motorcycle appeared in his mirror.

Then another.

Cole was at the front.

The chase stretched across the desert.

Frank knew these roads. He had ridden them for decades. He knew where the pavement narrowed, where the gravel collected, and where a sharp bend could surprise a rider who relied too much on speed.

Cole was faster.

His motorcycle was newer, lighter, and more powerful.

But Frank was not trying to outrun him.

He was trying to lead him away from Emily.

At the next junction, Frank turned west instead of south.

Cole followed.

The road descended into a broad dry wash. Loose sand covered the bottom, and the sides rose steeply on either side.

Frank reduced his speed.

Cole did not.

The younger man's rear tire slipped as he entered the wash. He corrected too sharply, sending the motorcycle sideways.

For a moment, the machine seemed to float.

Then it struck a rock.

Cole was thrown from the seat.

His body hit the sand and rolled.

Frank braked hard and stopped several yards away.

The two motorcycles behind Cole slowed.

One rider jumped off his machine and ran toward the fallen vice president.

Cole was conscious, but he was struggling to breathe.

His right leg lay at an unnatural angle beneath him.

"Don't move!" the rider shouted.

Cole swore.

"Get me up!"

"Your leg—"

"I said get me up!"

Frank dismounted slowly.

Pain pulsed through his shoulder.

He approached the group.

Cole saw him and began shouting.

"This is your fault!"

Frank looked at the injured man.

"No. It's yours."

Cole tried to sit up.

His companion restrained him.

"Stay still, Cole!"

The rider turned toward Frank.

"Call an ambulance."

Frank took out his phone.

He called emergency services, gave the location, and explained that a motorcyclist had suffered a serious leg injury.

Then he knelt beside Cole.

The younger man stared at him with hatred.

"You could've left me."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you?"

Frank looked toward the road.

"Because I know what it feels like when everyone decides you're not worth saving."

Cole's expression flickered.

For a moment, he looked less like a powerful club officer and more like a frightened child who had discovered that the world did not obey him.

Then the anger returned.

"You think that makes you better than me?"

Frank shook his head.

"No."

He stood.

"It makes me responsible for what I do next."

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Frank walked back to his motorcycle.

One of Cole's men followed him.

"Where are you going?"

"To find Emily."

"The police will want to talk to you."

"They can find me."

Frank mounted the Road King.

The man hesitated.

"You're just leaving him?"

Frank looked at Cole.

"No. I'm leaving him with people who can help."

He started the engine.

As he pulled away, Cole shouted after him.

"You're not finished with me, Morrison!"

Frank did not turn around.

He rode toward the highway, following the route Emily had taken.

By the time he reached the main road, the sun had begun to sink toward the mountains.

He found her parked beside a closed roadside market, standing outside the truck with the cassette pressed against her chest.

When she saw him, she ran forward.

"You're bleeding!"

"It's nothing."

"Your face is covered in blood!"

"Then I suppose it's something."

Emily almost laughed, but the sound became a sob.

She threw her arms around him.

For several seconds, Frank stood awkwardly, unsure what to do.

Then he placed one arm around her shoulders.

He had not been held like that in years.

When Emily finally stepped back, she wiped her eyes.

"Did you get the case?"

Frank nodded.

"Did Cole—"

"He's alive. His leg's broken, probably badly."

Emily looked relieved despite herself.

Frank studied the cassette.

"We need to get this to someone who can use it."

"The police?"

"Not the local department."

"Why not?"

"Because we don't know who we can trust."

Emily frowned.

"Then who?"

Frank thought of Michael Turner.

He thought of the federal investigator Daniel had once mentioned.

And he thought of Walter Grady, standing alone at Desert Star with a telephone in his hand.

"We start with the people your father trusted."

He looked toward the western horizon.

"Then we find out who was willing to betray him."

That evening, Frank and Emily rode to a small motel outside Phoenix.

They checked in under different names.

Frank cleaned the blood from his face and wrapped his injured shoulder.

Emily placed the cassette in a metal box beneath the bed.

For the first time in days, they were safe enough to sleep.

But neither of them slept well.

At two in the morning, Frank woke to the sound of a telephone ringing in the next room.

He heard Emily answer it.

Then he heard her voice change.

"Who is this?"

A pause.

"What do you mean, my mother is missing?"

Frank was out of bed before she finished the sentence.

Emily stood beside the telephone, pale and trembling.

The caller had hung up.

Frank took the receiver.